Break out the tea and crumpets, because Laura Linney’s favorite rich, lazy white people are back in action — or inaction — in what promises to be a tension filled season of missing shirts, bad investments, and gallons of hair grease. Having watched the two hour season premiere, I thought I’d share some observations before me and my falcon, Heroditus, tour my estate on our morning constitutional.
Oh, and SPOILER ALERT … I’m about to spoil the premiere, so if you are a Downton fan, yet haven’t watched it yet (highly unlikely), there’s an excellent Dutch porn site just a click away from here with your name on it. Now to the fun!
Mr. Bates is nobody’s bitch. I’ve watched some OZ in my time, so I’m an expert on prison rape. It always happens, and not as romantic as you’d think. But nobody’s putting any objects in Mr. Bates’ pantry, who let us know big time in a rare Downtown “action” scene that he is the Daddy of cellblock ancient. Oh, and he’s also interested in work gossip, and Can-can dancing … vicariously of course, through his wife, detective Miss Marple.
Lord Grantham is a financial idiot. Putting all of your heiress wife’s fortune in a Canadian train company? Really? Canada? Because you thought Canadian train stock would rise, thanks to a European world war? Canada? Have you been to Canada, Lord Grantham? There’s only like 100,000 Canadians, and they don’t move around. The whole place is just open space, with giant wolves on the prowl, and a few fortified cities (to protect them from the wolves) … one of which is filled with fake French. Canadian trains? And I’m not alone in believing that Lord Grantham is mentally challenged. Lady Grantham in at least three scenes rips him to various do-nothing members of the family … and this judgment coming from a very medicated moron.
Shirley MacLaine loves the sun. I mean, she’s like the psycho tanning Mom. Or at least that’s what the Dowager Countess thinks, as Maggie Smith drops at least ten bad bombs about Mrs. Levison’s tanning habits. Okay, I get it … except that Shirley MacLaine looks like a corpse. Literally. Pale, bloated white skin. And pretty sure I saw a maggot peeking out of that wig.
Tuxedos are the jean shorts of 1920. Holy shit, I had no idea that wearing a tuxedo was so trashy. If I wear a tuxedo, I feel like the Lord of the Castle, but apparently real Lords with castles won’t be caught dead in them, cause then other aristocrats, properly dressed, will order drinks from them. That makes me so … indignant! Wait a second! The Dowager Countess was part of the whole waiter bit. She’s such a trouble maker. But I love the old bird.
Cancer existed in 1920. I had no idea. Really. Thought the Pox was the big thing. That and the plague of course. Oh yeah, TB took out a lot of staunch white people as well. But cancer … wow. Thought it was invented in like 1950. Wonder if they had lasers in 1920? They might have. Can you imagine the Dowager Countess with a laser? Look out America!
If you roofie an Irish guy, it doesn’t knock him out, but just makes him really drunk and belligerent. No shit Sherlock. You’d think the British would have figured that out by now … though the incident took place in 1920. But pretty sure Irish and alcohol predates 1920 … by a few thousand years. And by the way … what type of British Lord carries around roofies? Lord Grey’s son for one! That was so fucking random. Winston, please pack my snuff box, and fill it with roofies in case I want to play a “prank” at Lord Grantham’s party by drugging his peasant son-in-law. Boo! I’m so done with the Greys.
Tall people were discriminated against. Couldn’t believe how much shit the new footman Alfred took for being over 6’2″. And he was white! Today, he’d be a starter on Duke. But in the Downton Abbey universe, he’s treated like a … guy in a tuxedo. Though he did get some from the American servant … and mouse girl definitely has her rat whiskers twitching over the tall mess. Could we see a Downton threeway this season? Yeow!
Rich people love leaving Matthew Crawley money. Lots of money. Despite the fact that the dead people are barely related to him … or had their daughter’s dumped by him. Followed by their daughters killing themselves. Yet Matthew Crawley hates being left money. So much, that he gives it back, even though his wife loves free money. Hey, Lady Mary, you money grubbing bitch … leave Matthew Crawley alone. You have to respect his rejection of free, undeserved wealth. Because you know that some other old fucker’s gonna leave him even more money tomorrow. How do I know this? Matthew Crawley has a secret. He blows rich sick people. It’s his thing. It is.